


there are no atheists in foxholes

by liginamite



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Choking, Descent into Madness, Drifting, M/M, Mind Control, Nosebleeds, Seizures, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt and Hermann have been feeling off since they helped to cancel the apocalypse. They're losing time, long black-outs, periods of aggression. The feeling that there's something else, something they can't pin down. </p>
<p>The thing is, the Kaiju drift left something behind in the both of them, and it's determined to get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the pacific rim big bang!!! thank you to everyone on twitter who encouraged me to write (especially jem who is an absolute darling) and stuck with me through my notes to myself and whining about writing and generally putting up with me. 
> 
> my artist is also currently on a cruise but i'll be adding the final draft of her crazy awesome art as soon as i get it!
> 
> thank you for reading, and to the mods for putting this together!!!

  
Hermann wakes up to a stiff leg and a scarlet patch on his pillow, blood caked under his nose.

It’s nothing particularly new, at least not in the days following the end of the apocalypse but it still puts a damper on his mood right from the start. He sniffles, half angrily and half to dislodge the clot, rubbing until flakes of red flutter down onto the sheets. The first few days he had griped and snarled at nothing in particular, scrubbing furiously at the pillowcase at his tiny, tiny sink before ultimately accepting defeat.

Today, he just turns it over onto the cleaner side and lets his head fall. He feels drained, exhausted in a way he should have been a long time ago, but never letting it catch up to him. There’s an itching at the curve of his skull, not physical so much as mental, and he squeezes his eyes shut. It tickles, not in the pleasant way, but there’s something inquisitive about it and he knows exactly what it is.

“No,” he says softly, and the itch persists, turns into a whine that tapers off into a short yelp when he responds harder, with more force and aggravation. “ _No,_ Newton, there’s no need. I’m fine.”

The itch flutters gently, clearly concerned, and a bit of Hermann’s irritation lessens. He carefully maneuvers until he’s not putting so much pressure on his leg and tries to stretch himself out, still feeling the obvious crusting underneath his nostrils and the tiny presence making itself comfortable in the back of his head, like a cat circling around to curl onto a lap. He has no particular need to be up early; his delay won’t put a city of millions in jeopardy if he takes a few minutes longer to rise than usual. His leg is, for lack of a better term, killing him.

Nothing to say of his head.

There’s a moment where the itch flares a little in concern, but he waves it off, pulling a deep breath into his lungs and letting it out slowly in time with the pulsing of his muscles, right down to his bones and flaring off across his hips. He’s been having more problems recently, another side effect of running around for a night and day on legs that simply can’t handle that kind of stress anymore. There’s a bright orange bottle of pills standing innocently on the bedside table, prescription shiny and new, and he eyes them. His leg pulses again, the bad one, and there’s a twinge starting in the other one, as well.

Finally he sighs and reaches out, feeling the cool plastic against his skin. The pills rattle, loud and obnoxious, in the quiet of the room. The itch in his head persists, and settles into warmth.

It’s going to be a long day already, he can tell.

He gets up slowly, finally, manages to swing both legs off the mattress with a bit of effort, toes cold against the concrete floor. Newt’s still pressing gently against the back of his mind, warm and soft and present, encouraging him to keep moving as he gets ready. Hermann closes his eyes and feels the vague sensation of hot water spraying down against his back, a torrent that pummels the knots twisting the muscles beneath skin, the scratch of nails against his scalp as Newt works shampoo into his hair.

Hermann shakes his head a little, and the sensation settles back into a familiar, soft chuckle reverberating in his skull.

Newton’s waiting for him out in the hallway when he finally makes his way slowly and painfully out of his quarters, leaning heavily on his cane. Newt’s hair is flatter than usual, weighed by the last remnants of his shower, and there are dark bags under his eyes from a restless night. But there’s a bright, tired smile on his face as soon as he sets eyes on Hermann. He straightens up from where he had been leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, and he’s over in an instant, his hand splayed against the bony curve of Hermann’s hip as he gives him a quick once over. There’s a spark at the contact, like static between their bodies. They both lean into it, unthinkingly.

“Hey,” he says. His fingers are warm. “Are you feeling better?”

Hermann straightens out as much as he can, but allows Newt to give him a bit of unfortunately needed assistance. His leg is still burning underneath him, dull pulses of pain that travel up towards his shoulders, and Newt’s face pinches a little when the two of them take a step away from the door. He must feel it too, then, when a spasm of pain ripples up Hermann’s thigh.

“A little,” Hermann allows him, looking away. Newt beams at him, clearly pleased with the answer, and gives him a once over again. His fingers are gentle when he runs them first underneath Hermann’s nose, checking for blood, and then his thumb pulls at the skin above his left eye, checking the blood vessels still burst in his eye. Newt’s isn’t looking any better, exacerbated by his two Drifts to Hermann’s one. “There’s no need to baby me, Newton. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” Newt says easily, scoffing, and leans back again, clicking his tongue when Hermann scowls at him. “Hey, man, don’t look at me like that. You _just_ got out of the medbay, okay, and anyways we’re supposed to be, I don’t know, encouraging each other’s presence or whatever, and the doctor told me to make sure you’re okay. I’m not the one who collapsed,” he adds, and Hermann raises both eyebrows.

“You had a _seizure. After_ collapsing, need I remind you.”

“You did too. I didn’t collapse the second time, or puke. Whatever.” Newt’s shifting awkwardly foot to foot, scratching at his damp hair, and Hermann wants him to put his hand back on his hip for some inexplicable reason. The both of them need to make their way to the lab, but there’s a heavy feel to the air, the both of them unsure what to do. They’ve Drifted, now, and even after a week and a half of getting used to the idea, honing the connection, the shared emotions, the dreams, the nightmares, there is still an awkwardness to their interactions.

What do you say to the man who’s been inside your head?

Newt scratches at his hair again, looking uncomfortable with the silence, but he doesn’t bounce around as he might’ve once upon a time. It’s possible that some of his energy transferred or dimmed a bit in the aftermath of the Drift, settling down into the beat that Hermann’s fingers now like to tap out, but more likely than not he’s headed towards a downward spiral. Hermann can almost feel it in the pit of his stomach, but if that’s the case, Newt makes no indication that it’s so.

“But you do feel better,” Newt finally says out loud, and Hermann nods. “You don’t feel, like, like you’re going to collapse again or something?” His hands are hovering again, as if he knows what to do to help, but is unsure that Hermann will allow it. For what it may be worth, things have changed, and Hermann feels that he appreciates Newt’s efforts than he would have even two weeks ago.

“I’m quite fine, I assure you.”

Newt’s still got an inquisitive look on his face, and he’s leaning in close, eyes narrowed. Hermann can practically count the freckles splattered across his nose and forehead, see the thin ring of brown around his pupils. The veins in his left eye are still blown as well, but the cut near his temple has been healing nicely, no longer needing a bandage to keep the edges of the wound together. Physically, they both still have traces of that night lingering, but they’re both in better shape than they had been the following morning.

Hermann winces before he can stop himself, the memory of the agonizing pain that had pulled him out of sleep, the toll of standing all day and running through the streets of Hong Kong with little care for what it would mean in the morning. He hadn’t been thinking, it’s true. Hadn’t been considering the ramifications of his actions, but it all caught up to him in the morning. Debilitating pain, pain that froze his insides and sent him toppling to the ground when he attempted to get out of bed. Perhaps not the best course of action, he’ll realize later when he’s being held up in a stiff cot by nurses in burning white outfits and pain’s rippling up and down his spine.

But perhaps in some odd way it had been an awakening of a kind, because it had alerted them both to the bond that had somehow been created in the Drift. Because when Hermann had been crumpled on the floor, breathing through his nose like every inhale might be his last, Newt had come bursting in, practically tripping over himself, and toppled to the ground next to him.

“Hermann!” he shouted, and his voice was so hoarse from shouting all the day before that it cracked between syllables. He sounded like the world was collapsing around him, and maybe in a sense it was. “Hermann, holy shit, are you, are you okay? Are you alright, Hermann, answer me, come on, man--”

 _No, I’m not okay,_ Hermann had thought, blearily, barely lucid, and unthinkingly Newt had answered, his hands fluttering pathetically just above Hermann’s hip. He looked on the verge of hysteria, his eyes wide and panicked.

“Then what can I do?” His tone was quieter than Hermann could ever remember it being. “What can I do, tell me, do you need medicine, do you need a doctor, what?”

He would’ve liked to have not been found this way, preferably, curled on the floor like an invalid and choking back the keening wails of pain he hadn’t indulged in since he was a small child and scraped his knees. Newt’s hands were still wildly searching for a way to alleviate the pain, and it was only when Hermann thought, _pills, bedside drawer,_ when Newt scrambled to his feet to get them,that either of them understood that something was off. It was when Newt was pressing the cold bottle into Hermann’s shaking hands that they realized words had never once been spoken on Hermann’s end.

It was not feasible, nor was it initially desirable, but having Newt in his head had calmed Hermann in some strange, alien way, enough that Newt could empty pills into his hand and direct them to his lips, enough that he could drag Hermann back onto the bed and call for a med unit to arrive with Hermann in a thankfully less mortifying position. He was still strewn out on his bed, still pale as a corpse and breathing in shallow pants laced with pain, but Newt’s steady _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,_ had done more than a handful of painkillers and sheer willpower ever would again.

And now here they stand, Newt’s hand hesitantly curled around the nape of Hermann’s neck as he double checks the blood vessels in his eye as the doctors had instructed before finally letting his arm fall into a crooked position, his mouth turning up into a smile. Hermann’s hand tightens a little on his cane, wincing against the pain still blooming dull but _there_ in his hip, and reluctantly hooks his elbow with Newt’s.

“Shall we, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says smugly, brightly, a thousand different emotions cycling through Hermann’s head like a carousel. Hermann resists the urge to roll his eyes. He still has several things to do, tasks that have built up during his time incapacitated--stopping at LOCCENT, as per a request that had popped up on his tablet, is on his sadly long list of errands, and it’s just on the way towards the lab--but accompanying Newt on their first morning trek of a new world is something he feels he can handle. Newt just grins at him, and brushes a light thought against the curve of Hermann’s skull. It’s sweet and loving and sincere and it’s _Newt._

So Hermann grins, thin-lipped but there, and ducks his head once.

“Of course, Dr. Geiszler.”

There’s a second itch, one that licks at a corner not claimed by Newt, just a tiny little thing that Hermann does not acknowledge, but it persists ever so slightly. It feels hollow, but it is there nonetheless.

-

LOCCENT deck is abuzz with movement when the two make their way towards the center console, techs running back and forth at shouted orders, and papers fly when one of the fans above their heads whir to life. Hermann looks up at it curiously, an eyebrow cocked, but a look around confirms what he had suspected; the Shatterdome had not been in the grandest state when the lot of them had been shipped to Hong Kong, and it’s clear the fans are present to cool down the array of tragically old computers.

“This place is a mad house,” Newt says, and barely scuttles out of the way as a tech runs by, a barely heard “sorry, Dr. Geiszler!” pitched high and stressed as she keeps running. Newt awkwardly waves at her back before shrugging at Hermann, who’s scanning the sea of heads for the one he needs.

Finally he nods and carefully inches his way around a group of them with their heads ducked down over a chittering tablet. Newt trails after him, hands in his pockets, but his expression brightens instantly when he realizes who it is Hermann had been looking for.

“You two are looking exceptionally cheerful today.” Tendo’s grin is wide, even as a single strand of hair falls down into his eyes. “Glad to see you’re up and active, Dr. Gottlieb.” He looks flustered but content, and Hermann recognizes the engineering jumpsuit from the Jaeger decks, not unlike the ones many of the crews wear during preparation for deployment. It’s the first time in memory he can remember having seen Tendo in anything less than impeccable (if not old-fashioned) dress, and it’s jarring.

“What’s with the get-up?” Newt asks, voicing Hermann’s thoughts as he flicks a hand at the jumpsuit. Tendo looks down at it and sighs long-sufferingly, pivoting slightly on one ankle to show off the standard issue boots the jumpsuit’s pant legs are tucked into.

“Standard protocol, my man,” Tendo replies, and shrugs. “You know, now that we’re not scrapping for funding from the bottom of the barrel, we’ve gotta stick to the dress code. And unfortunately, as long as I’m on the reconstruction committee, gotta hang up the old duds for now.” But then he waggles his eyebrows and gestures to the embroidering above his left breast pocket. “But check it out.”

Newt leans in, squinting.

“Co-head of Reconstruction,” he reads out loud, and looks up with curiosity. “Who’s Head?”

“Mako,” Tendo says simply.

There’s a loud, electrical sound from behind them, and at the confused looks, he jabs a thumb towards the window that takes up the entirety of the deck’s front. From beyond, the pair can see sparks flying as people bustle, small as ants, around a hunk of metal that vaguely resembles an arm. Strung above it is the very same woman Tendo had just named, her hair swinging into her face as she carefully and delicately opens up one of the panels on the backside of the bicep.

When Hermann squints at it, he can see the navy blue that snakes up one side of the arm, withered away by rust and age and the disuse it suffered during its time in Oblivion Bay. But Hermann would recognize it anywhere, and he limps towards the window, mouth dropping open slightly.

“Romeo Blue?” he manages, and Tendo smiles from behind him.

“You got it, Doc. Herc got permission--sorry, _Marshall Hansen,_ ” but he snorts there, and it’s clear the formality is also protocol standard, “to start reconstruction on a lot of the original Mark I’s, since some of them are still in prettty decent shape given how quickly some of them went down.” There’s a touch of despair just underneath the casual tone, and Hermann wonders how many of those losses Tendo was present for. “Which reminds me.”

Tendo turns on his heel and whistles sharply through his teeth at one of the techs running around, the latter of whom startles and hurries forward, hair in his face. He’s got an armful of tablets pressed to his chest.

“Yes, sir?” and boy, Hermann can see the smug grin on Tendo’s face at the word. _Total command_ , he thinks wryly, and from next to his Newt shifts a little and there’s the vague impression again of thoughts brushing against his consciousness.

_Almost._

“Do you have the schematics for Dr. Gottlieb?” Tendo asks, and although his tone is crisp and authoritative, Hermann can’t help but smile privately; Tendo’s expression is still as kind as it’s ever been, with or without shiny new embroidery. The tech manages not to stammer out his reply--new blood, must be--as he shuffles through the tablets.

“Y-yes, sir, right here.” He extracts one of them and hands it carefully over to Hermann, who opens the files with a small, pinching gesture as the hologram follows them, and Newt looks on with renewed interest as Hermann carefully turns it to the left.

“New coding on the Mark-1s?” he asks, without really asking, and Tendo nods as Hermann inspects the illuminated skeleton of Brawler Yukon. He had only individually coded from Romeo Blue onwards, but he had studied the coding of the Brawler Yukon extensively, almost religiously, and it had been that rough, brutal coding that he had filled the holes in for, had built onto it and written until his hands were raw, and looking at it now it’s like he’s hurled twelve years back into the past.

“We need you to work your magic, Doc,” Tendo explains, and turns the hologram himself. “We have the basics of the Mark-1s, yes, but there were a lot of kinks that needed to be smoothed out, at least for reconstruction.” He grins. "We figured you're the man for the job."

Hermann turns the hologram again, his fingers brushing along the criss-crossed patterns that make up Romeo’s Conn-Pod, and he nods. He remembers the attention to detail he had given this particular Jaeger, and as the hologram sinks back into the tablet, he offers Tendo a small smile. Tendo beams back at him and winks, clearly delighted with such a response, and then hooks his arm into the crook of Newt’s elbow, tugging him along.

“Now I don’t have anything for you, brother, but we’re still on for drinks sometime this week, right?”

Newt “duhs” out loud, and as Hermann makes his way to the large window, the Jaeger deck just beyond it, he hears the added on, “oh, shit, I still owe you fifty bucks, don’t I?”

Close up, Hermann can see the bent metal and twisted bars that make up the majority of the arm, the beehive pattern of wires that had connected pilot to machine frayed and ripped in more places than one. He remembers when they had first begun construction on Romeo Blue, scraping together what parts they could in fourteen months, and he touches his hand carefully to the window, breath fogging up the glass as he leans in close. Mako’s still strewn up with ropes, her hair now clipped back as she draws a long line across the metal, a tool locked between her teeth.

Hermann takes a careful chance and knocks a few times against the glass. Mako looks up, then, her eyes hidden by thick goggles, but she grins around the handle in her mouth and waves happily, pointing at the Jaeger with clear delight. Hermann can still see a tiny little girl, with wide eyes and small hands, tracing the lines of code with the tip of her finger. He waves back at her and she smiles at him before pressing thick boots against the metal and propelling down.

He waits patiently and sure enough, Mako is bursting into LOCCENT, and there’s a smudge of grease running down the long line of her high cheekbones. She’s grinning ear to ear at the sight of him, and she pushes back a blue strand of stray hair behind her ear. He returns the smile, small but genuine.

“Dr. Gottlieb!” she greets, and bows once while he mirrors the action, the gesture small but familiar. ”It’s good to see you out of the medical bay and on your feet. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, my dear.” He gestures with a hand to the Jaeger looming beyond the glass, and she follows the movement, her lips parting as she gazes with clear adoration at the metal monstrosity. Romeo’s creation had been before the Onibaba attack, but she had still met the Gage brothers and had even read through Hermann’s code once (before giving up, too young to even hope to understand any of it) and it’s clear she views the Jaeger with fondness.

“You seem happy,” he comments, and she nods, still staring at the Jaeger.

“Mark-1s are simple and yet so complex,” she replies, and her hand shift, rest on her hips as she speaks. “They were scrounged together during terrible times, and yet so much of it is so intricate and detailed. They’re easily put together, but near impossible to replicate because of the urgency they were made with.” A secret smile settles across her face before she turns back to him, and her eyes glitter with old mischief. “I look forward to whatever challenge you have for me, Hermann.”

The tablet still tucked underneath one arm, he stares at the Jaeger as well, remembering the very first time it ever launched. He remembers the Gages, their grins wide and confident and scared out of their wits, their drive suits still shiny and new, preparing for the first real drop. His chest feels hollow suddenly, but not with loss. No. Not loss.

Hermann swallows down the sudden jolt of _hatred_ that broils thick and ugly in his throat, pretends it never happened.

“I will be sure not to disappoint,” he says, and for the second time, the crook of his arm is locked in another’s as Mako leads him towards the programming station. He finds he doesn’t mind it.

-

They say that belief is unwavering, if one has the conviction and the faith. Hermann has always had faith, of a sort. Faith in numbers, faith in those around him. Faith in what he can see, and though he’d never say it out loud, faith in Newton as well. And conviction, well, Hermann is nothing if not stubborn.

He sets to the task of reworking Romeo Blue’s code with the same fiery assurance he had the first time, chalk leaving a fine coating over most of his top half as he writes. The week drags on, and yet it zooms by them, every second not taken up by snagged moments of rest. Newton’s trapped in the lab for eighteen hours a day, dissecting both frozen samples from years ago and the new samples they were able to save from the Otachi site. Leatherback was a lost cause, everything salvageable completely reduced to sludge by Danger’s plasma cannon, but Newton’s excitement over every new find clearly makes the long work days worth it.

They end up walking back to their separate quarters together late at night, Hermann’s cane clacking loudly in the empty hallways. Anyone that’s up will be in LOCCENT, surely, and as they reach Hermann’s room, Newton shifts awkwardly on his feet for a long moment before Hermann finally rolls his eyes and steps inside.

“Oh, come on then.”

Newt beams at him and follows, kicking off his shoes the second he’s inside and looking around with interest. Hermann’s room is mostly as he’d expected it, no doubt, but Hermann had in recent years put up a few posters of different constellations, and Newton zeroes in on them near instantly.

“Fuck it,” Newt says out loud, and before Hermann can even begin to ask, Newt’s got both hands twisted into his jacket and he’s pulling him close, shoving their lips together with very little finesse. Hermann makes a muffled, confused noise against Newt’s lips, groping for the first handful of cloth he can find to keep himself from toppling over. Unfortunately, the combination of momentum and imbalance sends them both flailing onto the bed, Newton practically flipping over in his attempt to avoid landing on Hermann’s hip.

They both lay there on the bed, stunned, before Hermann suddenly bursts into giggles.

“Shut up,” Newton says into the duvet. “Shut up, you smug bastard.”

Hermann just laughs harder, pressing his palms into his eyes and pressing, the giggles bubbling up and over until he can’t contain it, until his stomach hurts and his chest is tight and when he finally looks up, Newton is staring at him with so much adoration in his eyes that it temporarily sobers him up from his laughter. He’s still smiling, but there’s a pit of anxious energy burbling in his stomach, and some of it, he thinks, must be from Newton.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Newton says too quickly, but when Hermann just stares at him for another long moment, still smiling despite himself, and finally Newton throws his hands up in defeat and says, “okay, fine, fine. You just. You look good, when you smile.” He scratches at the back of his head, and Hermann feels heat rising in his cheeks. “You should smile more, it. It lights up your whole face.” Newt’s starting to turn red, too. “You look younger.”

“...well.”

“So. Yeah.”

Hermann shifts awkwardly, and remembers what they had been doing that brought them onto the bed in the first place. He hesitates, and brings his hands back up, tugs at Newton’s collar until he follows, the pair of them collapsing back onto the sheets, lips pressed together again. It’s more careful than the first kiss had been, softer in a way. Newton’s hands come up, thread into his hand and Hermann can feel the quirk of a smile against his mouth.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for _ages,_ I hope you know,” Newton mutters against his lips, and Hermann can’t help but smile back. He doesn’t say anything, but merely slots their mouths together a little more comfortably, his intent clear. He has wanted this for a long while now, as well, finally moving his hands up into Newton’s hair.

They shift a little, settling into a more comfortable position that puts weight off Hermann’s hip and gives Newton more room to maneuver, his knees on either side of Hermann’s hips, and when he leans down their chests press together, frantic thumping of both their hearts in time with the other. Hermann can feel it, like a shadow of himself, the feeling of Newton’s heart and lungs and pulse and everything in between.

Something throbs suddenly behind his left eye, sharp and painful. He hisses and pulls back.

“Hermann?” Newton’s voice sounds anxious again, a second before he quickly pulls back and brings a hand to his own eye, squeezing both shut. “Oh, ow. _Ow._ ”

It throbs again, harder, in time with his heartbeat before abruptly spreading like ink in water, pain blooming horribly. Hermann grabs his head and curls into himself, gasping, as it pulses. It feels like he’s lying beneath the foot of a Jaeger, metal crushing his skull slowly but surely. From next to him Newton is panting wildly, his legs kicking out as another sharp stab of pain levels him onto his back, spine arching upwards.

“Oh, oh god, oh,” Newt is whimpering, high pitched and pained, digging his fingernails into his temples hard enough to leave half-crescents in his skin. “Fuck, fuck, _ow--_ ” The word tapers off into a wild cry and Newton writhes, a scream wrenched out of him. Hermann has a split second to respond before his skull is utterly torn apart, cracked open wide for the world to see. He screams as well, turned onto his side and curled up until his knees practically touch his forehead, the pain in his leg forgotten.

He’s dying.

There could not be another explanation for the agony rippling through every cell of his brain. He’s dying, he is being ripped to shreds from the inside out, his mind is being pulled on from every last angle, and from somewhere next to him Newton lets out a wail like he’s dying, too. It’s a horrid sound, one that sounds like he’s drowning, and if Hermann could he’d reach out for him. It’s the worst pain Hermann can remember having ever experienced; it tears at him, rips hairs from his head as he tugs at it, trying to pull the pain out if he can. It’s moved past pulsing, settling into a constant, and he has the sudden horrid thought that if it never stops he would rather be dead.

_dead all dead everyone is d e ad they will all die dead die die d ie_

The words echo, reverberating against the inside of his skull and he cries out, clutching at himself and trying to focus on those ten bright points of pain where his nails dig into his skin. The words don’t stop, variations but always the same, begging for death, threatening it, _demanding_ it.

And then finally it fades, slowly but surely, and as it does, his muscles start to unclench from where he’s curled into himself. Tears that he hadn’t really registered shedding are sliding down his cheeks to mingle with the blood dripping from his nose. It’s soaked into the sheets underneath him, pressing a sticky pattern into his cheek. He lays there on the bed, every breath coming out as a soft whimper.

Newton’s a tiny ball on the other side of the bed, his hands threaded into his hair and he’s shaking from head to foot, but slowly as Hermann watches he unravels himself, eyes bright and unfocused and blood sliding in steady rivets down to his chin. The left one is even redder than it had been, blood vessels broken and vivid.

“Newton,” Hermann croaks, and hardly anything comes out. Newton looks over at him, slowly, lips parted and blood slicking the tiny lines along his mouth and between his teeth. He’s pale as a corpse, but he still manages to smile shakily. “Are you all right?”

Newt snuffs, and another droplet of blood joins the stain beneath him.

“You should see the other guy.”

Hermann reaches out before he can stop himself, voice hoarse. “Newton.”

Newt turns away again, rubbing at his bleeding nose with his shirt sleeve. It leaves a dark stain across the white fabric, but it still doesn’t stop bleeding. Hermann reaches up to touch his own, and the slip of blood over his fingers makes him grimace. It pools in his palm and he tries to hobble off the bed towards the tiny bathroom. Blood is still sliding down his face and onto his shirt, getting worse as he moves, and he feels like he might vomit.

As soon as he catches sight of himself in the mirror, he nearly does. He’s pale as a corpse, and his left eye, like Newton’s, has become even more violently red, standing out in a stark contrast to the rest of him. His hands shake where they fall onto the sink, gripping the lip of it like it’s the only thing holding him up. His nose won’t stop _bleeding_ and for a moment, he’s truly frightened he could die of blood loss.

“Did you hear that,” Newton says from the doorway, and Hermann jumps. Newton is standing there, nearly dead on his feet, swaying, and his voice sounds blank. “You heard that, right?”

“I…” Hermann hesitates, because he _had._ He knows what Newton is talking about; he can feel it like a soft, gentle rope wrapping around his consciousness, like a gentle caress that squeezes just a bit too hard. Newton stares at him, eyes distant and glazed.

“You heard it,” Newton says in a monotone, and blood strings briefly between his lips. “They want everyone dead.”

“ _Stop it._ ”

Hermann hadn’t meant to shout, but it comes out panicked and terrified. Newt blinks then, and something returns to his eyes, something living and real and solid. Hermann’s hands are shaking against the sink, horror settled dark and twisting in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he might explode from tension and fear and the desire to puke up everything he’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.

“You’re scaring me,” he says before he can reign the words in, and Newt looks startled.

“I’m--what?”

Hermann shakes his head, tries to ward away the pulsing headache that’s started anew behind his eye, a single hand lifted up to touch his temples. A second later he’s whirling around, knees hitting the floor with a solid, painful thud as he vomits into the toilet. The blood flow starts anew from both nostrils, dripping into the water as he retches. They need to go to medical if the bleeding doesn’t stop, he thinks dimly.

“Oh shit, _Hermann_ \--” Newt’s hands are on his shoulders, running up and down his back with uncertainty, until he’s done vomiting and slumping against the toilet again.

“Are you okay?” Newton asks quietly, softly, like he’s unsure what Hermann needs, and Hermann just snuffs and says out loud, “I should ask you the same.”

Newton huffs loudly, hiding something like a nervous laugh, and hauls him to his feet.

“C’mon,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking half to himself. “Let’s go lay down.”

-

They get into a fight, the next day. The act itself is nothing particularly unusual, but it escalates to angry screaming before either one of them can really register it. It doesn’t feel right, in comparison to the last week since their drift, and there is a moment, for a split second, when it looks like Newton is going to hit him, going to punch him in the face or kick him down.

Hermann doesn’t remember having ever seen such an expression on his face. Their fights had always been brutal, yes, but never violent.

But what scares Hermann the most is that, for more than a moment, he feels the same way.

He doesn’t quite know what to believe, on that front, and so he ignores it entirely.

-

It happens a second time, barely a day later, when Marshall Hansen is in the lab to look at the new codes Hermann wrote up for Romeo Blue, taking up the majority of his chalkboards. Herc’s looking a lot worse for the wear in recent days, dark shadows under his eyes and more scruff on his face than before. The way he looks at Hermann’s calculations, it’s clear he’s not entirely sure what any of it means, but he still appreciates the dedication.

Marshall Hansen is no Stacker Pentecost, but his presence is still impressive, his back straight and he asks thorough questions that make it obvious he’s interested in what they’re doing. A distinct difference from when he had merely been a right-hand man.

“Looks good, Doctor,” he says, squinting at one of the equations. “Those Mark-1s are tricky bastards, we’re lucky they were even up and running.” He side-eyes Hermann, and there’s a sly, tired smile on his face. “No offense. Your work on ‘em was probably what had ‘em working in the first place.”

“Thank you, sir.” It feels weird to call Herc “sir”, but proper regulations won’t allow Hermann to be any less than perfectly polite. Hermann chances a glance at Newton’s side of the lab and finds him huddled in the corner, his eyes narrowed. He looks almost like he’s _glaring_ at Herc, and while it’s true the latter had expressed clear distaste in Newt’s original drifting idea (with good reason), there’s no need for such bitter resentment now.

“Newt, you’ve got anything for me?”

Newton opens his mouth, and Hermann has a brief shock in his own chest of annoyance, even rage, before Newt abruptly looks down, tugging his phone out of his pocket and staring at it for a moment. Then he shoves it back in and makes his way across the lab, avoiding looking or touching Herc at all.

“Tendo wants to see me,” Newton mutters angrily, and hurries off before Hermann can properly ask him what the problem is. “I’ll be in LOCCENT,” he calls, and Herc shakes his head.

“Something ain’t right with him,” he mutters, and Hermann’s about to defend Newton’s lack of tact (for whatever reason, because he certainly never would have before) when Herc adds on, “I knew a Kaiju drift was a bad idea.” He runs a hand through his short hair, the other arm still in a cast but now at his side rather than slung up. Hermann shifts, awkwardly, before he turns back to the chalkboards.

“Have you been feeling off, Hermann?” Herc asks from behind him, and he does sound concerned, if not worn out. Hermann feels the urge to shrug, remnants of Newton still left behind.

“Not particularly,” he lies, and points at one of the lines written on the chalkboard.

It happens suddenly, without warning. One second he’s about to explain the calculations, the next he is clutching at his head and shuddering, pain rippling through him like a wave. His cane clatters to the floor only a few seconds before his knees give out. A arm awkwardly wraps around his waist to catch him before he can crack his head off the lab floor. Herc had caught him, his broken arm held out at a strange angle as he carefully tries to lower Hermann to the floor. Other hands are suddenly on him, and he tries to twitch away from them.

A second later it doesn’t matter, the pain escalating to white-out levels, shudders running up and down his spine.

When the pain fades and he can think again, he’s startled to find Raleigh Becket hunched over him, a look of concern on his face. Hermann manages to avoid groaning as he slowly sits up, and there’s a warm hand splayed across his back as Raleigh helps him up. Hermann abhors being touched, but he’s not entirely sure that he can get up on his own, and the help, however unwelcome, is still helpful.

“I’m sorry,” Raleigh apologizes, as if he knows that he’s making Hermann uncomfortable, and just beyond the Ranger is Herc, crouched down and looking unsure. “Are you alright? I passed by and heard screaming…”

Lord, he was _screaming._

“Dr. Gottlieb collapsed,” Herc explains, and Raleigh looks back up at him before he carefully tugs the handkerchief poking out of Hermann’s pocket and hands it to him, gesturing at his own face. Hermann takes the hint and presses it hard against his nose, feeling blood soaking through near instantly. Raleigh grimaces, but there’s a look of empathy on his face that suggests he’s been there before, and Hermann briefly wonders what the early days of pilot training were like. Another pulse of pain settles behind his eye, and he winces.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, and tries to get to his feet, groping around for his cane. He’s on the floor, which will surely make everything much more of a challenge, but Raleigh offers his hand out. Hermann stares at it, a minor war raging in his head. He does not require help, not usually, but right now his hip and legs are aching to the bone, his head is pulsing, and blood is still dripping slowly down his face, the same consistent flow as it has been the other times.

Finally, he carefully takes Raleigh’s hand and allows himself to be hoisted up and deposited in a chair, substituting pride for practicality.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and Raleigh nods.

“Has this been happening a lot?” Herc asks, and Hermann prolongs the inevitable by trying to stand, his hands shaking on his cane. Immediately Raleigh sits him back down with a gentle push on his shoulders and crosses the lab to fill up a glass of water, handing it to Hermann when he returns.

“Hermann,” Herc repeats, and Hemann sips awkwardly, not looking up. “Has this been happening a lot? To both of you?”

Finally, he nods. Herc and Raleigh share a look.

“What’s been happening, besides the headaches and nosebleeds?” Raleigh asks carefully.

“Blacking out… Periods of aggression… he... seemed as though he wanted to attack me the other day,” Hermann mumbles, reluctant to share this moment with anyone else. It paints a picture of Newton that he doesn’t want other people to see, because it’s the wrong picture. Something isn’t right, but it needs to be brought out into the open. When he speaks again, he’s not looking at either of them. A droplet of blood slides into the glass and he grimaces, raising the handkerchief to his face again.

“It’s not wise, I feel, to leave Newton on his own right now, and certainly not with others,” Hermann mutters, still pressing the handkerchief to his nose, and winces when a spike of pain shudders through his left eye. “I feel that… something very wrong is occurring, whether it be mentally or otherwise and it could end in injury or worse.” He doesn’t add that being alone with him seems like a dangerous choice as well, because surely it’s not. But then… there’s rage bubbling low in his stomach, but it’s a remnant of the hive, not of Newton--

Herc pales, sudden realization hitting him like a punch to the gut, and Hermann sees then what mistake has been made.

"Shit,” he hisses, looking horrified and then he's turning on his heel and out the door. For a split second the pair remaining just stay there in the lab, frozen, and then they’re up. Raleigh's kind enough to wait for Hermann to catch up to him, but it's clear from the way his body vibrates with barely contained energy that he doesn't want to. Hermann doesn't fault him for it.

They catch up just as Herc reaches the lift and Herc practically cracks the lower button, he slams his palm down on it so hard. Hermann can feel it in the back of his throat like a disease, growing anger and hatred and the sharp copper tang of blood running down to his stomach. He doesn't know if it's real or not, and that in and of itself is what frightens him most.

It’s a long ride, the lift shuddering hard every time it stops at a floor and Herc keeps hitting the button as if that itself will make it move faster. When it opens again, Herc is taking off, his boots heavy against the floor and again, Raleigh waits for him, even though it must kill him to do so. Not for the first time in his life, Hermann feels like a burden, and he has half a mind to wave Raleigh away.

But the young Ranger just stays in step with him and Hermann manages to keep up, feeling pain radiate from every muscle as he moves as quickly as he can. LOCCENT is just up ahead, and it’s when they’ve reached the door a cry is heard from the other side, frightened and pained. It’s impossible to tell who it is, and Herc’s pulling open the door by the time Hermann and Raleigh have caught up.

“Shit,” Raleigh whispers, and Hermann’s heart drops down to his stomach.

Newt is growling, a low, angry sound that reverberates in his stomach. He’s hunched double over Tendo, the pair of them on the floor, and Tendo’s chair has been knocked over and rolled to the side. There’s blood streaking down Newt’s face onto Tendo’s cheek below him, but with a jolt Hermann realizes that it’s not from stress or neural damage, but rather the swollen mess of his nose. One of his eyes has begun to bruise shut, as if someone struck him hard across the face.

Face a flushed red, Tendo chokes weakly, and his nails are digging into the hands wrapped tight around his throat, spots of red beading where they pierce the skin, but Newt doesn’t let up. There are four long streaks down one cheek, deep and bloody, as if something clawed at him in a fit of rage.

Everything moves in a blur, like the world is spinning on its axis too hard for the rest of them to keep up. Raleigh moves faster than a man his size should, darting across the room and ripping Newt bodily off the floor and off of Tendo, toppling to the ground with him. Newt growls at him, blood in his teeth and Hermann knows he should feel fear, should be disgusted by the scene before him but there is nothing, there’s only that empty, angry void where Newt’s presence should be. Raleigh growls too, partially in anger, partially in the exertion to keep Newt away.

Herc pushes past him as well, dropping down to the floor and wiping blood out of Tendo’s eyes. He’s coughing horribly, back arching and fingers scrabbling at his throat, and there is still more blood seeping gently to the floor underneath him from the lines cut into his cheek.

"Tendo," Herc's voice is urgent, pleading, the tone of a man who's lost too much already and can't bear to do so again. Tendo winces, another wretched cough torn from his throat, the sound of his heels thumping against the floor as he attempts to pull himself into a sitting position, but he barely gets a few inches before Hermann sees him do something akin to swooning, slumping back against Herc’s arms.

“I’m, I’m okay,” he wheezes finally, and his voice is so hoarse that it throws Hermann for a moment. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay. We’re taking you to medical,” Herc growls. A moment later he snaps at Raleigh, who’s still attempting to subdue a thrashing Newt. There are long, thin lines down the skin where the sleeves of his sweater have rucked up, drawn there by Newt’s blunt nails. “ _SHUT HIM_ _ **UP**_ _._ ”

Before Raleigh can do anything Hermann is crossing the LOCCENT floor, his cane clacking heavy and firm in time with his strides. He reaches out, ignoring Raleigh’s startled, “Doctor, wait--” and touches Newt’s throat in a mirror of what he himself had done to Tendo. He finds the void, where Newt should be curled in the back of his mind, and he tears into it. Rage nearly blinds him, nearly rips him from the inside out, and Hermann fights down a groan.

Newt snarls at him, kicking wildly and tossing his head, but Hermann just tightens his grip.

" _Stop,_ " he demands, his fingers pressing against the thrum of Newt's pulse, and Newt suddenly goes still under his touch, panting against the warm knit of Raleigh’s arms. He’s silent now, staring at Hermann with nothing short of confusion and as Hermann watches, his pupils contract, eyes softening back to green. He goes limp in Raleigh’s grasp, save for the hands still clutching at his sleeves, and looks around.

“Hermann…?”

“Get him out of here,” Herc snarls, and Raleigh tightens his hold on Newt. Half of it appears to be unconscious and protective of the others, even though Newt appears to be himself again, but the other half is clearly responsive, obedient after what he’s just seen. Tendo is massaging his throat, half-conscious, and he’s clearly having a hard time breathing. But still he whispers, “Herc, stop--”

“For everyone’s safety,” Herc speaks over him, but there’s no denying the tenderness with which his fingers brush against the swell of Tendo’s throat. “For his as well. Transfer to medical and will someone _please_ call the goddamn med unit down here already?”

Newt finally looks around, his fingers still holding on tight to Raleigh’s arms, unsure and entirely confused as to what’s happening, and when he looks over at Hermann it’s clear he’s scared. Scared of what he’s done, scared of Herc, and scared of the blood crusted under his fingernails. Hermann can feel it curdling in his stomach, and he exchanges a look with Raleigh, who just nods.

“Dr. Geiszler,” Raleigh says carefully, and lifts Newt to his feet. He seems so much bigger, especially in comparison to Newt. “Maybe we should do what the Marshall says.” Newt’s attention has finally turned to Tendo, still cradled on Herc’s lap and coughing horribly. His eyes widen.

“Wait,” he whispers, and then louder. “Wait, no, I. I didn’t. That wasn’t.” Hermann can feel it in the back of his mind, the sheer horror at what he’s done. “I didn’t.” He repeats the words, feverishly, as if trying to convince himself more than the others. “I didn’t do that. I. I couldn’t have.”

It doesn’t look as if anyone knows what to say to that, Newt’s bewilderment too sincere and scared to be anything but genuine. Tendo shakes his head, tries to speak. But it only comes out as a weak cough again, his head falling back against Herc’s arm. He’s clearly in pain, and Hermann reaches out, grabs Newt’s sleeve in one hand and Raleigh’s in the other.

“We must go,” he says in a low voice. “Now.”

Raleigh practically hauls Newt to his feet, and they hurry off, pushing past the people that are filing in.


	2. Chapter 2

-

Medical has never been Hermann’s favorite area in the Shatterdome. Too dark to be anything like a hospital, though he hates those as well. But a hospital at least promises sterility, it has an air of professionalism that dingy walls and flickering lights could never hope to accomplish. The rooms are a little nicer, set on a separate generator that doesn’t short out during brown outs, smelling of alcohol and the vague copper tang of blood. He walks through carefully, ignoring each room until he reaches his destination, and then it takes him a long moment to lift his hand.

“Come in,” the occupant calls out when he finally musters up the resolve to knock, and after careful consideration, he clicks open the door.

Tendo’s propped up on a small mountain of pillows, his fingers working at a tablet in front of him, and even from here Hermann can see the vicious purple bruising that’s begun to wind its way around its throat. But when he looks up to see who’s come to call, his face breaks out into a grin. It’s quickly dampened by a wince as the motion pulls the bandages stretched across his cheek, and Hermann hears the little “ow” he lets out as his fingers touch the white gauze.

He walks closer, and Tendo lays the tablet down on his lap.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he greets, and Hermann feels almost ashamed at how cordial Tendo’s being. By all rights, he should want nothing to do with the drift partner of the man who very nearly killed him. But Tendo has always been a kind soul, if not a little sharp around the edges, and Hermann appreciates it more than he can say.

“Mr. Choi,” he replies, and he’s getting ready to launch into… something, he’s not sure what, an apology on Newt’s behalf, perhaps, but Tendo interrupts him with a careful interjection of his own name. Hermann blinks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just Tendo, sir,” is the curt reply. “I never really liked the whole formality thing, but. The Marshall was a very formal kind of guy.” He smiles again, not as wide as before, but fond just the same. Hermann drops his gaze and finds that two of Tendo’s knuckles have split open, and when he looks up, Tendo’s eyes follow.

“I, um, I punched Newt kind of hard,” he admits quietly, and there is actual guilt in his tone. As if he should be ashamed for fighting for his life. Unconsciously, it seems, he begins to pick at the bandages taped to his cheek, and Hermann reaches out before he fully processes the motion. He has never been a particularly tactile person, so perhaps it’s Newt in play, but regardless, he still gently pushes Tendo’s hand away.

“I saw,” Hermann replies after a moment, and tries to make a joke of it. It’s the least he can do in the situation. “That was quite a black eye you’ve given him, Tendo. He’ll be showing it off for days as soon as they release him.”

Tendo chuckles, but it’s tainted with new worry, one that has him running his hand through his hair and huffing when it falls into his eyes. For the first time Hermann realizes that he is seeing a side of Tendo Choi not many people have; dressed down and ruffled, bedridden rather than trailing behind the higher powers, picking up the pieces of disaster and fitting them back where they belong without notice.

“Yeah, well, he probably won that round, I think,” he mutters to himself, and his hands come up again, fingers brushing against the mottled skin of his throat. Hermann carefully settles himself down into the bedside chair, laying his cane across his knees. “How is he?”

“Angry,” Hermann answers, and there’s the slightest twitch in Tendo’s fingers, a nervous response. Hermann elaborates. “At himself, mostly. He doesn’t remember very much of what happened--” A two-faced lie, that. Hermann knows that Newt remembers nothing of the fight. “--but what he does, he feels incredible guilt, particularly over having endangered your life. He considers you a close friend,” Hermann tacks on at the end, knowing it to be true.

“I would like to extend an apology on Newton’s behalf,” he continues, and Tendo’s eyes drop again, his eyebrows furrowing together before he says something that rattles Hermann to the bone.

“That wasn’t Newt.” His voice is small, but it is very sure, and Hermann straightens a little in the chair. Tendo glances over at him, and he repeats himself with more authority, more assurance in his tone. “That wasn’t Newt. I don’t know who it was, but it wasn’t him.” He gestures for a moment, clearly searching, trying to explain what he means, and Hermann waits patiently, even as there’s an angry buzz growing in his head, like a bee has taken residence just behind his eyes.

“He… looked at me weird. There was something different about how his eyes were,” Tendo continues, and he swallows nervously, wincing as it no doubt sends a spasm of pain across the bruises. “I know Newt, Dr. Gottlieb. Maybe not as well as you do, but well enough to know when something’s wrong. It’s why I hit him.” He flexes his knuckles. “I… knew I wasn’t hitting Newt. There was something else there.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what it is you’re insinuating.” There’s a rush in Hermann’s ears, rapidly escalating into a roar, but all of Tendo’s words are coming clear as day. He feels as though he’s looking at the world behind a glass wall. He can see everything quite clearly, but there is a barrier, one he simply cannot get across.

He knows exactly what Tendo is describing. A void, rapidly swelling, consuming everything in its path until nothing remains. Nothing of Newton, or of himself, only that rapid buzzing and roaring that crawls down his spine. He can hear them, all of them, startled that someone noticed their deceit and all of them enraged at the exposure. Hermann’s fingers tighten on his cane, hard enough that the wood whines in his grasp. There is a delicate whispering in his ear, asking him sweetly to look at the purple roping around Tendo’s neck, remember what it felt like to press his thumbs into the skin there. To feel life draining beneath his own hands.

So easy, isn’t it, to kill a man.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Tendo says sharply, and his head snaps up, cane clattering to the floor when he startles. Hermann can only blink, pulled out of his reverie. Tendo is staring at him, wide-eyed, and there is definitely fear in his eyes. Hermann stares at him, lips parting as he tries to make sense of what just occurred. Tendo’s fingers twitch as he reaches carefully for the tablet on his lap.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he repeats, and his tone is shaken, “I think maybe it would be best if you leave.”

Hermann can only stare dumbly at him. Had he really just--

“My apologies,” he mutters, and rises unsteadily. Tendo’s watching his every movement, and on closer inspection Hermann realizes that his hands are shaking. From where he’s standing, he can see that Herc’s name is highlighted on the contacts list, ready to be pulled up at a moment’s notice. Hermann ducks his head as he leans heavily onto his cane, making his way back towards the door.

“I wish for your speedy recovery, Mr. Choi,” he adds as an afterthought, and Tendo looks away at last, a deep breath rattling him to the core as Hermann shuts the door carefully behind himself. Somewhere in his head, Newt hisses angrily, and Hermann closes his eyes, raises a quivering hand to his own face.

No, he had indeed picturing killing Tendo, imaging it in vivid detail as though it were his own idea. The feeling of muscles giving way beneath his hands, the rapid, shuddering heartbeat as it slows to a stop, the darkened cheeks and blue lips--

He had pictured all of it, but from Newt’s eyes. Newt had wanted to kill Tendo, and what’s worse, he had wanted to watch the light leave his eyes personally. Hermann can still feel the burning need to harm, to kill, to take everything away in the snap of a neck. He closes his eyes and sees Herc Hansen, soaked to the bone and a flare gun in his good hand. Chuck is still alive, his eyes wide and bright and they’re both staring up at him from the hull of Striker Eureka.

He wants to _destroy_ that man, he wants to take everything away from him. Destroy. Take away. _Kill._

His hand finds the doorknob again, and it clicks in his grasp, turning slowly as he hears the word repeated over and over again in his skull, bouncing off his other thoughts. Kill. _Kill._ He’s going to take away everything from this man, kill, repeated over and over again, he is going to open the door and--

“Dr. Gottlieb.”

He blinks, whirls around fast as he is able to find Herc standing in front of him, his eyes tired but his expression carefully neutral. Hermann can’t remember having ever found the newly appointed Marshall so large, but right now, even with his bad arm still wrapped and hanging carefully at his side, the man is enormous and just as intimidating. His jaw is set, and Hermann swallows.

“Marshall Hansen,” he replies, and his voice is hoarse. He’s frightened, not of Herc, but of what has just happened in his own head. “ I was. Paying Mr. Choi a visit.”

“I noticed,” Herc replies, and nods his head in the direction of the exit. “You’ve visited. Now go.”

Hermann’s grip tightens on his cane as he ducks his head in return, but before he can turn Herc’s speaking again, his voice a little uncertain. Something’s left his tone, replaced by concern that only comes from years of working in the same vicinity, and he moves forward haltingly, as if he wants to touch but thinks better of it.

“You’re bleeding, Hermann.”

Almost unconsciously, Hermann lifts a hand to his face and stares at the sticky red mess on his fingers, smeared across his skin like a painting. The color is sharp and he closes his eyes, takes another deep breath through his mouth that’s hinted now with copper. When he looks up again, the concerned look on Herc’s face is still there.

“If--if you’ll excuse me, Marshall,” Hermann manages, and turns to walk in the opposite direction. There’s a scuffling, like Herc wants to follow him, but when Hermann reaches the door to Newton’s room, there’s no one behind him.

-

When Herc shuts the door behind himself and turns around, Tendo’s still trying to get a hold of himself, breath coming in sharp and quick and terrified, both palms pressed into his eyes. His hands are shaking, and Herc’s crossing the room in an instant, moving the tablet on his lap carefully onto the bedside table and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“What happened,” he demands, clearly trying and failing to be gentle in his tone. Tendo flinches but pulls his hands away. He can’t seem to stop the shaking in his hands, and when he looks at Herc’s face, he can tell something happened outside that door that Herc doesn’t want to tell him. He takes a deep breath and steadies his hands as best he can.

“I don’t think Hermann’s okay either,” he mutters, remembering the blank look that had settled over his face, eyes lifeless and dull before the expression had shifted, had become angry, demented. Tendo can’t get that expression out of his mind. Hermann had looked _terrifying,_ his lip curling upwards and eyes wide and feral. It was the same way Newt had looked before he’d tackled him to the floor, before Tendo could get that one good swing in.

It wasn’t _human._

“Oy.” Herc snaps him out of his thoughts, and his tone is a lot softer now. He reaches out, hesitantly, before cupping Tendo’s face with his good hand. His thumb rubs gentle circles against the edge of gauze taped to his cheek, and there’s such a look of desperate love there in his eyes that Tendo feels the frantic beating of his heart calm little by little.

“I don’t think so either, to be honest,” Herc mutters after a moment, when Tendo reaches up and touches the back of his hand lightly. “They’re starting to worry me, and I don’t have time to spare to make sure either of them are in their right mind.” He takes his hand away to scrub it down his face, and Tendo notices that the scruff has gotten worse in the last few days. His eyes darken. “But Geiszler’s gotta stay in solitary until he can get a hold of himself without jumpin’ every person he sees.”

“I think we need to intervene here, Herc,” Tendo finally says, and Herc looks over at him. “Something’s off, and we’re going to lose two of the best minds in the PPDC if whatever this is gets to them.”

“I know,” Herc mutters, and runs a hand over his scruffy face. He sits down in the chair Hermann had been occupying. “What is it Geiszler wanted to see you about, anyway?”

Tendo squints, confused. “What?”

Herc glances at him. “He said you wanted to see him right before he attacked you, said you sent him a message that it was urgent.”

There’s a pause, and Tendo shakes his head, looking confused.

“I didn’t send Newt anything.”

-

Newton looks up when Hermann steps inside, his eyes red and watery, and one of his wrists is handcuffed to the side of the bed. He looks awful, but still attempts a smile when Hermann closes the door quietly behind him. He looks absolutely wrecked, and his eye is nearly swollen shut. Tendo really did pack a mean punch.

“I know, I know, the new look is great on me,” Newton mutters, and picks at a stray thread on the comforter. Hermann waits silently, sitting down on the chair next to the bed. They’re both comfortable in each other’s presence now, in a way that they had never truly been before, and finally Newton starts talking.

“Did you tell Tendo I said sorry?” he mutters, and Hermann nods.

“I did.”

“Listen, I just.” Newt sighs angrily. “I just wanted to… to _get away_ from Hansen for a few minutes, all right? He was pissing me off and I had no idea why so I, I dunno, I thought I’d lie and go up to LOCCENT and chill with Tendo for a while.”

“And instead you try to kill him,” Hermann says before he can stop himself, and Newton goes white as a sheet, the reality of his actions perhaps finally setting in. He looks down at his hands, the blood underneath his fingernails cleaned by the nurses, and clenches both into fists until they start shaking with tension. Hermann feels absolutely horrible for his slip, and they sit in silence for a long time after that.

“I just.” Newton’s voice is so _quiet._ “I don’t know what happened. One second we were laughing and, I don’t, I don’t know, the next second you’re yelling in my face and everyone’s telling me I tried to kill one of my _friends_ and I don’t remember a damn thing.”

“You blacked out?”

Newton nods, and that matches up with exactly what Tendo had told him. Another shudder ripples through his spine and he remembers, suddenly, the violent anger that had taken a hold of him in Tendo’s room as well. It turns his stomach, and he feels nauseous.

Hermann gets up abruptly, mutters a quiet goodbye, and before Newton can really stop him he’s out the door. He’s hobbling, half-awake, not really feeling as up to doing anything as he might want to. It’s a haze of sorts, and when he nearly runs into some

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Mako greets, and she looks tired. From next to her, Raleigh is watching the conversation quietly. “I was wondering when I would see you. Do you feel alright?” She reaches out to touch his forehead. “You seem hot.”

He tries to smile at her, but Newt’s words are still ringing clear in his head. He remembers, with sudden clarity, the way that he had seen the attack through his own eyes, the burn in his chest. He wants to say that he’s feeling fine, but he keeps hearing Newt’s words, keeps running them through in his head, and the thoughts manifest in a warm streak down over his lips. It comes quickly, violently, suddenly, connected to the emotions that Newton is still curling around back in his bed. The blood roars in his ears, sudden and wild, and the anger rips him to pieces from the inside out. He can’t see, can’t think, can’t breathe--

He comes to mere seconds later, still snarling wild, angry curses, but this time Raleigh has a tough hold on him, strong arms pulling him back and away, and Mako is wide-eyed, stunned silent in the middle of the hallway. Incredibly, Hermann’s first thought is that if he _had_ been able to attack Mako, it certainly wouldn’t have gone well from him in the slightest. Mako could probably snap him over her knee.

And then it slams into him with the force of a truck. He tried to attack Mako, and it was only the intervention of Raleigh that kept such a thing from occurring. He feels cold, horrified; his cane is lying on the floor a few feet away from his shoes. What happened?

“I--” Hermann’s wavering, Raleigh’s arms still wrapped around him to keep him. He doesn’t know what to _say._ “Mr. Becket, I--please, let go of me, your, you don’t have to--” he trails off, slowly, still looking at Mako, still trying to piece together what had happened. “Miss Mori, I. I--”

“This is to protect _you_ ,” Raleigh says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s joking even a little bit. His tone sounds dark, even. Mako is still staring at Hermann with clear despair in her eyes, still standing a few feet away when she had jumped back.

In a sudden burst of clarity and humiliation, Hermann pushes as hard as he can against Raleigh’s arms and, perhaps to save his dignity, neither of them try to stop him. He swoops down, shaking, and snatches up his cane before he makes his way to his room, breathing hard, and from behind him he can hear the pair of them talking. He needs to clear his head.

He slams the door shut behind him, limping as fast as either leg will allow to the bathroom. He’s shaking, hard, his hands rattling against the doorknob to the bathroom, the shower curtain, the knobs. The knobs squeak when they’re turned, icy water spraying the cheap linoleum with a screech.

He strips and gasps when the cold hits his back, but instantly he feels sharpened, zeroed in, every stray thought that wormed its way into his consciousness stripped away to be replaced by the near pain that comes with the water pelting his muscles. He practically falls into the chair in the shower, hunching down low.

Hermann breathes in weakly, the exhale coming out in the shape of a shattered cry as he buries his hands in his hair, pulling at damp strands until it hurts, until between the pain and the cold he can focus on what just transpired on the Jaeger deck.

He attacked Mako. Had it not been for Raleigh’s intervention, he would have certainly landed a blow. And although it was as Raleigh had said, he could not have hurt Mako if he truly wanted to, he had still _attacked her._ He had attempted harm on the very same little girl who had sat quietly in a chair in the lab and watched his calculations, who had hugged him gently when his father had sent him the final, patronizing letter, the woman who offered her arm for support not out of pity, but genuine care.

Crying out again Hermann hunches down lower, trickles of burning-cold streaking down his spine, trying to remember. But all he can visualize is Raleigh’s arms keeping him at bay and Mako’s horrified expression; he doesn’t remember lunging, doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t even remember the moments leading up to it. He tries to picture the hallway, tries to _remember,_ but all it does is settle a sharp strike of agony through his temples.

Something whispers in his ear, acidic and painful.

“Please,” he says out loud, weakly, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Leave me alone.”

It whispers again, louder this time, its words delicate and precise and loving, like a soft touch caressing his shoulders, leaning in close to speak. He twitches away and turns, looking desperately, but there’s no one there. Still, there is a pressure on his skin, like the weight of a person leaning over him. He tries to shake it off but nothing happens; the weight feels like he gets heavier, crushing him slowly but surely, bending him until he’s hunched over and shuddering.

“No,” he whispers, and it grows louder, gasped out as the pressure increases, as his spine tightens, as the voice hisses in his ear. “No, no, please, stop, _stop--_ ”

There’s a loud crack of a fist hitting metal, but by the time Newt’s got the door open, Hermann’s pitched off the chair and onto the wet, cold floor of the shower, his body rigid in spasms.

-

Hermann comes to slowly, his mind muddy and thick, and slowly but surely Newton’s face swims into view. It takes him a long time to process his surroundings behind the focal point above him. He’s lying on the floor, his head cradled in a warm lap. He’s utterly soaking wet, the tiles cold against his skin, but to his eternal gratification, a towel has been wrapped carefully around his waist. Still, he’s shivering from the cold, and it takes him a moment to realize that the shower is still running.

Newt sniffles.

He looks up, blinking weakly to try and focus, and when he’s finally able to string together a coherent sentence, it’s only two words.

“You’re bleeding…”

There’s a smile playing on Newt’s face, weak and sad as blood drips in fat little droplets onto his shirt collar from his nose, some shaking before they fall and others streaking down towards his chin. He sniffles again and wipes at the blood, leaving a smear of red across his face, but the bleeding doesn’t stop. It makes his face look a macabre mess, his skin white beneath the dark red. Hermann can see his tattoos, vibrant and brilliant, through the wet fabric of his shirt, and with a start he realizes there’s a red ring of blood wrapped around his wrist as well, the skin torn.

“Yeah, well,” Newt says gently, and looks away, “so are you.”

Hermann reaches up with a leaden arm and swipes at the wet blood oozing from his own nose, staring in shock at the amount that coats his hand.

“Newton,” he says finally, and Newt just looks down at him. “I think we are in trouble.”

-

“You broke out of medical.” Herc’s voice is very, very cold, and incredibly pissed off. Newt’s lips pull back for a second, but then he settles himself back into the chair and turns away, his nose scrunching up in disdain. His wrist has been bandaged up. “And nearly killed one of our own, if you need reminding. You’re not on my good side, Geiszler.”

“Fascist,” Newt mutters under his breath, and it’s almost a pout.

“ _That being said_ , we can’t continue like this.” Herc looks like he wants to start pacing, he’s obviously so tense. “You were given strict orders not to leave the medbay--”

Newt scowls, gesturing at Hermann like he could win any argument. “I saved his life, too, unless that doesn’t count on the roster? Me breaking out was the only thing that kept Hermann from, like, convulsing and drowning in the shower or something, okay.”

“I’m aware of your intentions, Dr. Geiszler,” Herc says coldly, and finally sits back down, rubbing at his temples and for the first time letting his guard down, if only a little. “We’re ignoring the elephant in the room, and it’s time we approach this head on.” Hermann shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair the way he knows Newton does to make it stand on end. “Something went wrong with your drift with the Kaiju. That much is obvious.”

“Duh.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Herc snaps, and Newton obediently sinks lower into his seat, but he looks irritated, like something’s off. Hermann tries to straighten as much as he can.

“Raleigh and Mako suggested another drift,” Herc continues, and there it is, Newton stiffens, a familiar shiver crawling up his spine that Hermann can feel in his own back, like an echo. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but what can only be considered an attack is coming, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

Newt lunges, and before he can stop himself, Hermann’s springing out of his chair, too. He grabs Newt around the waist and they go toppling to the floor, pain ripping through Hermann’s hip like it’s been set on fire and he cries out before he can stop himself, fingers scraping at the metal floor.

That seems to snap Newt out of it and he freezes on the floor, looking around. Hermann’s on one knee and his forearms, head touched down to the floor and breath coming out in pained, shocked pants. Sparks of pain are still shooting up and down his leg, and there are hesitant steps from all sides as people aren’t sure whether or not to help them. Herc is still standing in front of them, his expression shocked.

Hermann can still feel rage broiling in the pit of his stomach, the urge to pull his lips back and show his teeth and attack the first person to move in front of him. There’s black on the edge of his vision, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face.

A warm hand spreads itself over his back, and Newton speaks above him, his voice strained.

“Let’s do it.”

-

When Hermann drifted with Newton the first time, there had been interference. There had been a third party, and something about that had made it easier and equally as hard. Submitting wholly to another person’s thoughts, allowing them in and mingling as one is a daunting, terrifying prospect,

“Well, whatever happens,” Newton finally says, in a quiet whisper, and the people around him are kind enough to pretend they can’t hear. “at least. At least I’m doing it with you.”

Hermann almost snorts, but he’s too tired, and nodes are being pressed to his temples..

“You wouldn’t have said that a few weeks ago.”

Newt looks pained as the technicians step back and give the okay. He’s about to reach out, to touch, but the restraints around his arms keep him back, don’t allow him even that tiny moment of comfort and familiarity.

“Hermann--”

Tendo’s voice speaks over them.

“Neural handshake initiating in three… two… one.”

-

They both jerk, startled, bodies convulsing twice before settling back into their chairs, and Tendo winces. Newt’s fingers are clenching and unclenching from where his wrists are secured; Tendo watches as his lips pull back again, a look of pure agony crossing over his face. Hermann, by contrast, is completely still after the initial pulse, his head lolling down. It’s nothing like a Jaeger drift, or even a regular therapeutic drift, like the kind the Kaidonovskys would occasionally indulge in.

“This doesn’t look right,” Mako says, moving in closer. “They look like they’re in pain.”

Newt twitches again, his chin against his chest. Hermann convulses again, like a surge of electricity surging once through his body.

“I think they’re chasing the RABIT.” Tendo slides over and flicks a switch on the panel, pulling up two scans of their brain activity. Everything’s gone completely blank, and he curses under his breath, pivoting. “I’m shutting it down, this isn’t going to work.” He’s just reaching out to pull the switch when Newt jerks, hard, and his head comes back up, eyes wide and terrified.

“ _Get out!_ ” he’s suddenly wailing, “ _get out get out get out get out--_ ”

Tendo jumps back more out of shock than anything else, and a second later Hermann’s head goes back as well, eyes rolling up under their sockets as he slips into rigid seizures, blood sliding down from both nostrils down to his chin. Their vitals suddenly sky-rocket, screeching angrily into the room.

Tendo swears and shouts, “Something’s wrong, go to the failsafe and get them out! This isn’t working!”

“The connection’s too strong!” someone yells back, and it’s a grisly echo of the same situation with two very different people hooked up to the unit. “We can’t separate them safely, sir, we need to shut down!”

“What in the goddamn hell is the point of having a failsafe if it’s never going to _work,_ ” Tendo snarls, and forgoes the chair for standing, the legs of it slamming into the desk behind him as he smashes his hand down hard on the override button, marked for emergency only. Everyone, shocked entirely at the obscenity, turns as one to the two scientists, still convulsing in their chairs as blood drips steadily onto their collars.

It feels like a lifetime, but it only takes a couple of seconds at best for Newt’s body to give one final, hard shudder before he settles down, unconscious, with his chin on his chest. Hermann doesn’t look much better, his face white as a sheet and eyelids fluttering in time with the gentle spasms that are still rippling up the length of his spine. The techs swarm, ripping the Pons units off their heads and checking pulses and vitals. Tendo’s hand is still pressed to the button, and a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.

“What in the hell is going on here,” Herc shouts, barreling in at the same moment one of the nurses looks up, pale hands still pressing two fingers to the delicate skin of Hermann’s wrist.

“Sir,” she whispers, and she looks stunned. Herc and Tendo both look over at her, as she carefully peels back one flickering eyelid and checks pupil dilation, watches as there’s no response whatsoever to the bright light being shined into his eyes. She keeps moving from vital to vital, triple and quadruple checking, and when she finally looks back up at them, her eyes are wide and she’s shaking her head. “Sir, I think… I think they’re still drifting.”

-

He’s in a field.

The breeze is light, billowing the grass gently where it’s not bent beneath his body, and when Hermann takes a deep breath he can taste the crisp, cold air on his tongue. He blinks lazily up at the sky, counting the clouds one by one, cataloguing the different shapes and patterns they make, which are what classification, and he has the craziest desire to reach out and touch one.

It’s peaceful, and peace is something Hermann can’t remember having experienced since he was a very small child, when Mother would pick him up and set him on her lap and tell stories for hours. He widens the spread of his arms and sighs deeply, letting his eyes close again. The grass shifts as a body settles down next to him, and Newt’s hands draw gentle patterns across his chest, and when they touch, sparks of contact flicker between their bodies, like electricity jumping and searching for residence.

“I’ve never been here before,” he comments, knees drawn up under his chin. “It’s nice. Is it in Germany?”

“It is a field on my parents’ estate,” Hermann replies without opening his eyes. “When I was a child, I would come out here at sunset and count the stars.” He smiles softly, absently, remembering the constellations he would chart in his head for hours, until he had them memorized. “I always wondered what it was like up there, if perhaps there was some way to visit one day.” His eyes finally open, and he wishes for those simpler times. “I was a foolish child.”

“Nah.” Newt’s fingers trace a path upwards, running across his eyebrows and dipping down the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“Are we in my head?” Hermann asks out loud, after another soft, content moment of silence. Newt shrugs, looking up at the sky with him.

“I don’t think there’s really a distinction anymore,” Newt says, and Hermann finally glances over at him.

This Newt is nothing like the Newt of their first drift, the one that had been blue and crackling with pain and otherworldly knowledge. Now he glows, like he’s been cloaked in solid gold, and yet his features are still perfectly sharp and detailed. He takes a look at his own hands and sees the same golden hue radiating off his skin.

The look on Newt’s face when Hermann looks back over at him gives off the impression of someone aged far beyond his years, and while on Hermann it’s become the norm, on Newt it seems wrong. It draws bags under his eyes and lengthens the dark look in his eyes that’s been there since the first drift, since Hermann first drew him shaking and bleeding back into the real world. But even as Hermann Newt presses his chin into the dimple of his knee. “It doesn’t work like that. We’re kind of. Just one head now, I guess.”

As if to illustrate his point, Newt threads his fingers into the grass, and around them the foliage shudders into the Central Park of New York City, pigeons dotting the sidewalk that wraps around the length of it. Hermann turns over and lifts to a sitting position, unsurprised when there’s no pain radiating from his leg.

“I’ve never been here,” he says quietly, and Newt laughs, watching the soft trickle of a silouette as it jogs along the running path.

“Yeah, me and my dad and my uncle lived here for a couple of years,” he explains. “Only for a couple, though, we moved on after a little while, but Central Park was always my favorite place to go when I needed to think. Dumb, right? Cliche.” He sighs against his knees. “I miss it.”

“I like it.” Newt looks over at him, a grin forming on his face. “I do. It’s… pleasant.”

“You’ve definitely never been to Central Park then, dude,” Newt laughs, and tugs him to his feet. “C’mon, I want to look around.” Hermann goes up easy enough, his fingers entwined with Newt’s and they stumble almost giddily, hand-in-hand, towards one of the great arches of a bridge. It doesn’t exist in the real Central Park, but Hermann recognizes it from one of the many different places his family would go on holiday.

It’s nothing like their first drift, and it’s beautiful, it’s euphoric, and Hermann doesn’t quite know what to do about it. He doesn’t want to leave, is the realization he comes to. He’d like to stay forever, here in what feels like a perfect world without pain or suffering, debt, the death of friends and family. Drifting the correct way was never anything Hermann had aspired to do, in the years since it was first developed. He had preferred the sidelines and the Jaegers, great mighty beasts that he could pick apart with knowledge, machines that he was in complete control of with nothing more than his mind and lines of code he had created himself.

As if on cue, a Jaeger shimmers into view a couple hundred feet to the right of them, and Newt’s the first to notice it, pointing with their still clasped hands at the large column of metal standing vigil above them.

“Romeo Blue,” he names from memory, and Hermann smiles at it. It’s large and imposing, but comforting, and like it could hear his thoughts, it raises one hand, opening enormous fingers to reveal two men standing on its navy palm, waving their arms in greeting and identical smiles on their faces. They’re both dressed as they had been the last time Hermann had seen them, their drive suits neat but worn, chips and nicks bumped out of the shoulders and chest plates, their helmets tucked under their free arms.

“You were friends with them,” Newt mutters, watching the Gages wave at them, watching as Hermann’s grief manifests itself into a soft wisp of breath that shudders out of his lungs. Another Jaeger appears, and this one Hermann knows Newt recognizes. Cherno Alpha stands tall and proud, the Kaidonovskys sitting on one enormous shoulder with soft, gentle smiles on their faces.

“You coded them,” Newt says out loud, as if deciphering a riddle, and when he looks at Hermann, the latter just nods silently. “All of them?”

Brawler Yukon. Coyote Tango. Horizon Brave. Tacit Ronin. Tango Tasmania. The Mark-1s all stand in the distance, one by one, their pilots waving happily. All dead, all heroes, and all conquered by the very beings that they themselves had synced their brains to. As if the drift were responding to the thought, Kaiju begin to shimmer into existence as well, their eyes beady and wide, watching them from where they stand silently. Like monuments, Hermann thinks. Ghosts.

“You know, Hardship was the first Kaiju I ever got to study on my own,” Newt says quietly, looking to the left. The Kaiju in question tilts its head, its four eyes staring them down with curiosity. “I never… really paid attention to the pilots before, because I was so damn in love with those.” Hardship lowers itself towards the ground slowly, four arms settling onto the grass like a dog, and for the first time Newt lets go of Hermann’s hand to walk towards it.

“I hated them,” Hermann mutters, not moving. Newt’s hand comes down on the long, thick jut of the Kaiju’s head, and it makes a soft, questioning noise. “I hated them for what they did to the Jaegers, the pilots. To _people._ Mindless, destructive machines that only ever wanted to kill and maim.” Hardship makes another noise, and it sounds almost offended. “Well, it’s true,” he defends himself.

Newt laughs and rubs at the Kaiju’s nose for a moment before seeming to realize what it is he’s doing.

“No,” he murmurs, and pulls away. “No, it’s true. They’re programmed that way.” He looks up at the closest Jaeger, Horizon Brave, the two pilots watching the two scientists with tilted heads. “They’re all programed that way. All connected somehow, you know? Minds aren’t supposed to be connected like this but.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Here we are.” He sweeps his hands out, opens his arms wide to accentuate his point, to put on display every single being, man, or machine, that takes up the space around them.

“Here we are.”

Newt huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I think we might have made some mistakes.”

Hermann glances at him with a patented Look, and Newt sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Okay, _I_ made some mistakes. But still. You decided to join me along for this little ride, and what do we get out of it?” He gestures at his eye, healed now in the drift. “I got a black eye and a possible assault charge if Tendo ever decides to get back at me for something if I piss him off.”

Hermann wants to sit back down again, but instead he takes another cautious step, looking around. The Kaiju and Jaegers both are still staring down at the pair of them, surveying silently as they keep walking, taking in the scenery around them. Things have dimmed, somewhat, as if a film were brought down over everything around them. There’s a dark corner growing wider and taller the closer they get to it. It feels like they’ve been walking for hours when finally, a sharp burst of fear hits him.

Hermann stops.

Newton keeps walking, but when their hands, once again entwined, nearly pull apart he turns around and glances at Hermann curiously. Hermann can only stare, however, at the corner, trying to remember why it seems so familiar, why he should stay away from it, why it frightens him down to his very core. Newton stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before turning back to the black corner. Finally, his eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says out loud, and walks closer to it. It feels like it’s reaching out to them, and hesitantly, Hermann follows him. They continue walking, and the black stretches out little tendrils, reaching for them like children searching for their parents. Newt reaches out to touch one, his expression unsure, and when it wraps around his pinkie finger, he mutters, “I know what to do.”

That’s when they appear. Nine feet tall and imposing, they all stare at the two of them like prey, their eyes beady and dark as the gold that surrounds them dims, loses its light in the presence of such terrifying creatures.

“Precursors,” Hermann breathes, the word surfacing like he’s always known it, and he wants to take a step back when Newton grabs his arm and tugs him closer. His eyes are wild and the red around his left iris has returned full force, almost shining in its intensity against the golden hue of the rest of him. Hermann figures his must be the same way again, the color having never really left since their first drift.

“Get out,” Newt hisses, and the Precursors take a step back, for the first time unsure. In the time since the drift, never once have either of them attacked this… _virus_ with It’s a mirror of their own feelings; the Precursors aren’t really there. They’re not there, Hermann tells himself. They are merely a shadow, the remnants of the drift, and with that comes the final realization.

This is the source, the reason for everything. The shadows that have burned themselves into their subconsciousness, they’re all screaming wildly now and Hermann feels it again, like he’s being ripped apart from the inside out. From next to him Newton winces and bends from the force of the hatred that rolls over them, but still he doesn’t let up.

“Get _out,_ ” he snarls, and again, and again, until they can feel something fading. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Everything is crumbling around them as the shouts echo across to the very edges of the little world they’ve created for themselves, as the Jaegers shimmer out of view, as the Kaiju wail and crash to the ground with mighty quakes that rock the foundation of the nonexistent ground. Hermann reaches out, searching, as white explodes across his vision, as something jerks wildly in his chest.

“Get out,” he whispers finally, and everything explodes.

Newt’s hand touches down on his, and everything is golden and warm.

-

The first thing he sees is blue; violent, shocking blue. There’s a hand touching his cheek, warm and soft and careful and when he opens his eyes further, Mako’s frightened expression swims into view. He tries to focus, tries to zero in on her and when their eyes meet, the relief that washes over her is palpable. People are talking everywhere.

“Hermann,” she breathes, and her hand stretches, cups his cheek. “Hermann? Talk to me. Are you okay?”

“Two hours, thirty-three seconds--”

He tries to speak, but he feels frozen in time, mouth working silently in the attempt to form words. She looks startled, concerned, but doesn’t stop touching, and from around her people are swarming, picking his hand up to press fingers to his wrist, checking his eyes, and someone else presses a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. From somewhere to his right, someone speaks.

“Neural overload, they both need a doctor _now_ \--”

“One-thirty-two per minute, vitals are going wild--”

“Newt, man, open your eyes, look at me--”

The words snap Hermann out of the haze and he looks over, startled, ignoring the wordless noises of protest made as he tries to get out of his chair. Tendo is standing only a few feet away, his hands carding gently through Newt’s hair, trying to rouse him. Newton’s blinking slowly at him, but other than that he doesn’t respond. Hermann’s out of his chair, nearly crashing to the floor when his leg gives out from underneath him, and it’s only the arms Mako has wrapped around him to keep him steady.

“Newton--”

Newton’s face turns, slowly, to stare at him and Tendo makes a sound of pained relief, but then Newton’s up and trying to struggle towards him, pulling wires and IVs in the process. Hermann hadn’t even noticed the ones that were dug into his own skin, but when he looks down there are long lines driven down his arm. And then they’re both on the floor, sets of hands reaching out from all sides to touch and tug and invade.

Hermann reaches out.

“I’m here.” Newt’s shaking between his hands, and there is blood dripping down his over his lips. “I’m here, Newton, I’m here.” The nurses are trying to drag them apart, but Hermann just keeps a tighter hold on Newt’s face, and Newt’s fingers tighten where they’re tangled in Hermann’s shirt.

“They’re gone,” he whispers, and Hermann nods. Newt repeats the words over and over, like he can’t believe the notion itself. “They’re gone, Hermann, they’re gone, they’re gone--” He’s shaking in Hermann’s arms, sounding terrified and also _relieved._ Tendo and Mako are both hovering, unsure, clearly scared for them both, and the hands of nurses and techs alike are both trying to separate them but unsure if that’s the right course of action.

“Remnants. It was remnants,” Newt continues to chatter on, and Hermann can almost see the vessels in his left eye bursting, “it’s like ghost drifting, they stayed, we retained the entire hivemind--”

Hermann hears the words dimly, through a haze. Fear, there is fear, but there is also the hollow emptiness in his head where anger and rage that was not his used to be. It was gone, and Hermann lets go of Newton at last, sinking back down into darkness and warm arms that catch him.


	3. Chapter 3

Once, when Hermann was very small, his father had taken him and his siblings to their grandparents’ house in England for two weeks. His father had never particularly approved of their mother’s side of the family, but she had pushed him into allowing the children to spend more time with her parents, and Lars had grudgingly allowed it.

On their second day, while Bastien had stood on a tall stool and helped crack open stalks of green beans with their grandmother, and Karla and Dietrich had chased each other through the enormous house, Hermann had found the library. He marveled at it, the shelves far taller than his head, and finally he’d tugged one of them out of the line-up and read the title over again before he opened it.

It was in English, but it was about the war his grandfather had served in; as a _fighter pilot,_ Hermann knew, and that was what spurred him to finding his grandfather. One of the passages had confused him, and his grandfather was a native English speaker, his words crisp and cultured, like the television shows Hermann liked to watch when Father wasn’t around.

“Opa,” he said in German, brandishing the book, and his grandfather had smiled at him and hoisted him onto his lap. As soon as he was settled Hermann pulled the enormous book onto little knees and pointed at the page he was on. Still only seven, Hermann had mastered only simple English; well enough that perhaps he could have a short and pleasant conversation with a native speaker, but certainly not fluent by any means. “Opa, I don’t understand what these words are.”

His grandfather looked down at the page and frowned a little, his bushy eyebrows coming together as he read the words over twice. Hermann noticed the frown before his grandfather could hide it again and, thinking of his father and how angry he got when any of them misbehaved, he started to close the book, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks.

A large, wrinkled hand kept the book from shutting, and though Hermann refused to look up, ashamed, he still sat at attention, waiting.

“Sound it out for me,” came the curt response, and Hermann swallowed and looked back down at the page. The words came thickly, like syrup, as he read them out loud in English.

“‘Sere’ are no… a… asiests?” He looked up, searching for approval, but his grandfather just nodded for him to continue. His brow was still furrowed. Hermann turned back to the book, struggling with the word. He knew the “th” sound, but actually creating it was another thing entirely. Finally he finished, his accent thick.

“Sere… _there_ are no a...atheists in… fo… foxholes.”

“Very good, Hermann,” Opa replied, and there was genuine pride in his tone. Hermann could feel himself glowing with the praise; reading in English was difficult for him, still, and to have mastered the sentence by sounding it out made him feel intelligent, worth something. Letters did not come to him quite as easily as numbers did, but even at seven he still knew that he was far above other little boys his age.

“What does it mean?” he asked, still pointing at the sentence, and his grandfather shifted, uncertain again.

“It means that when people are scared, no matter how they feel about religion, they will always hope there is a God.” The answer was simple enough, and Hermann took it in for a moment. How could people not believe in God? Perhaps he could understand it, in a way. Some people simply believed other things; there was a girl in his class, her skin dark and most of her head covered in a cloth, that had explained to their class that she wore it because of her own beliefs. It was easy enough for him to understand.

But more importantly, what he couldn’t understand, what could possibly frighten someone enough that they would change everything they believed in? What could be frightening enough?

“What do you believe in, Hermann?” Opa asked him, and Hermann considered the question. What did he believe in? But before he could answer the question, a voice rang out in the room.

“Hermann. Come along, now. It’s time for dinner.”

He looked up from the book, and immediately slided off his grandfather’s lap, clutching the book to his chest. His father stared at him sternly, an eyebrow raised, and Hermann jumped before turning back to his father and handing the book out.

“You may have it, Hermann,” his grandfather told him, and carefully pushed the book back into his little chest. “You may use it for practicing to read, and we shall read it together and you can translate more of it for me.”

Hermann just clutched the book tighter, nodding into the dusty pages under his chin. From above him, a hand touched down on his shoulder and his father’s stern voice sent an icy chill up his spine.

“What do you say, Hermann?” Lars reprimanded, his syllables sharp with disapproval, and Hermann glanced up.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” he whispered, and his grandfather smiled at him as Lars guided him away by the small of his back. Lars took the book as soon as their vacation was over, but not before Hermann had run the words through his mind again and again, trying to decipher the meaning. What could waver belief?

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he would hear from the doorway of his office, years later, and when he looked up, one of his students was in the doorway, her face white as a sheet and hands shaking wildly. “Dr. Gottlieb, something’s attacked San Francisco.”

-

Hermann’s flipping through dog-earred pages when Newton collapses down on his bed, sprawling out on his back and stretching. He doesn’t look up, his only response a raised eyebrow. Newton just tilts his head up, reads the title.

“Since when have you been into World War II, dude?”

Hermann turns another page, looking over the rim of his glasses and settling a little deeper into the cushions. He doesn’t answer, instead nudging Newton a little to the left with his leg so he can stretch it out. Newton just sighs and rolls his eyes, scootching up the bed to read over his shoulder. They’re not due for another session in at least two more hours, and Hermann would really like to try and get a bit of relaxation in before they’re set to be scanned another damn time.

“You can ignore me all you want, but I _know_ you know I’m here, and I’m going to keep bugging you.”

“I’m well aware of your methods,” Hermann finally answers, and he can see Newt’s triumphant grin out of the corner of his

“I’m bored,” Newton whines. “We still have another four days before they’re letting us back in the lab.”

“I know, Newton.” He turns another page, but he’s not really paying attention to the words anymore. He’s certainly read them enough times that he’s memorized the majority of the passages. He would love to get back to work himself, but rules are rules, and Herc’s already practically chased Newton out of the lab the last time he tried to sneak in to get to one of his samples. Mako’s visited them a few times in their required solitary, bringing them their books and other personal belongings, and Tendo, the sly bastard, even got them some coffee and donuts a few times. The lines on his cheeks had dulled into nothing more than thin pink lines, and he joked with Newt like nothing had ever happened.

They fall into silence as Hermann continues to stare at the page, but it’s nothing like the blank nothingness he had endured. He’s merely reflecting, and the room feels oddly comforting in its quiet.

“You think we’re okay?” Newt asks into the silence, and there’s still uncertainty in his tone, the shadow of grief and fear.

Hermann closes his book. There’s nothing in that corner, as there hasn’t been for nearing two weeks now. He looks Newton in the eyes, and for a moment they’re both quiet. He feels nothing but serene calm, and he presses a gentle kiss to Newt’s forehead.

“Yes,” Hermann finally says, and likely it’s the first time he’s ever actually meant it. “I do believe we are.”  


art by the amazing [Loki!](http://lokineko.com/)


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